The Greatest Showman#1482 - Gu Panshenghui
"Do you like James Dean?"
"No."
"Then no."
Rooney hesitated for a moment, slightly thrown off by the back-and-forth, before shifting her gaze to Renly's profile.
Evening had arrived, yet the summer sun lingered over New York, casting a warm orange glow across Manhattan's skyline. The city's edges and contours were softened, as though painted with a watercolor brush. In a fleeting moment, Rooney thought she caught a glimmer in Renly's eyes, a quiet radiance shining from deep within.
She bit her lower lip, tilting her head slightly. "I didn't know you cared about other people's opinions."
Her words held no shyness, no nervousness—just a playful challenge.
Renly, a cigarette dangling from his lips, smirked. "I hope I don't."
The unlit cigarette moved slightly as he spoke, adding an air of youthful defiance. It was a different side of him, unfamiliar yet still carrying the faint essence of his aristocratic composure—blurred, chaotic, and utterly captivating.
Rooney's smile grew, as if she had just unlocked a new chapter in an intricate novel, revealing unknown depths. "There are no reporters outside today."
"Rumor has it, they're giving me the cold shoulder," Renly replied, his tone indifferent.
Lately, the media had been buzzing about him. Reporters had sought out statements, hoping to extract a reaction, but Renly remained absorbed in filming, uninterested in their demands. Andy Rogers and Lydia Brooks had issued official statements on his behalf, yet the press was unsatisfied. They wanted him to personally clear the air, to validate their role as distinct from the intrusive paparazzi. But Renly never played their game.
So, after running a few carefully curated reports, the media simply stopped covering him. It was not a ban, just an intentional withdrawal. His name faded from prime headlines, and even his upcoming film, Boom Drummer, received minimal press—relegated to back pages and buried in the endless churn of online content.
Renly was unbothered. "I think they've finally had enough."
Rooney chuckled. "So, you're aware you're a handful?"
Renly's lips curled in mock surprise. "In a good way?"
She couldn't suppress her laughter. "I don't know—is there a good way to be a handful?"
"Of course," Renly mused softly. "Some troubles, you want to keep for a lifetime."
Family, love, friendship—they were all burdens in some way, yet the kind one longed to carry. People often complained about commitments, craving freedom; yet at the same time, they feared loneliness, seeking companionship. In the end, wasn't it all just a beautiful burden?
Rooney caught the flicker in his eyes—a mixture of loneliness, warmth, and resignation. The simple words carried so many meanings, stirring an inexplicable flutter within her. Sweet, yet bittersweet.
Before she could dwell on it, Renly spoke again. "Shall we go for a walk?"
She studied him carefully. "Are you sure? You must be exhausted."
After today's performance, even as a bystander, she had felt the weight of his exertion. He had pushed himself to the limit, crashing through barriers with each beat of the drums. The sheer intensity of it all had drained every ounce of his energy.
Renly didn't answer. He merely smiled and started walking.
Rooney hesitated for a moment, watching his retreating figure. Under the golden dusk, his silhouette looked lean, shoulders slightly hunched with fatigue—a lone poet wandering an endless road. That back was familiar yet distant—stubborn, weary, wistful.
Without another thought, she quickened her pace and fell in step beside him, like two drifters in a Western film, embarking on an unknown journey.
—
The Hudson River was alive with summer's energy. Tour boats crisscrossed the water, packed with tourists capturing snapshots of the shimmering cityscape. Along the riverbanks, skateboarders carved through U-shaped ramps, while joggers in sportswear wove their way up toward Central Park. The air buzzed with life, a mix of sun-warmed concrete and the crisp scent of the river. In the distance, visitors crowded around the Statue of Liberty, eager to immortalize their presence in the city.
"If you could pick any film in history to be a part of, which one would it be?" Renly asked suddenly.
Rooney thought for a moment. "Carrie."
"What?"
"You know, Carrie is fascinating. It's more than just a horror film. Whether viewed through a religious lens or stripped of its supernatural elements, it remains an intriguing character study. The relationship between Carrie and her mother alone is worth analyzing."
Renly raised an eyebrow. "I didn't expect you to pick something so… well-known."
Rooney turned to face him, her expression playful. "Are you doubting my taste? Do you think my choices are too mainstream?"
"Not at all," he replied, amused. "Unless… you think they are?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Alright then—what about you?"
Renly barely hesitated. "Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog."
Rooney's jaw dropped, and as realization set in, she burst into laughter.
Renly grinned, watching her expression unfold like the perfect punchline to an inside joke neither of them had known they were telling.